


Satisfied; or Yet Another Galley Fic

by SeedyGan (foreignobjecticus)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Feeding Kink, GPSC zine, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rimming, diets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29820660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreignobjecticus/pseuds/SeedyGan
Summary: Too long have Blake's midnight snacks been foiled in fanfic. For once, let's let Blake have his cakes and eat them too...
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Roj Blake
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: The House Always Sins





	Satisfied; or Yet Another Galley Fic

**Author's Note:**

> From the GPSC’s fanzine _**THE HOUSE ALWAYS SINS**_! Download the full fanzine [**here**](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1kX3N29d5B2Cdj3Ph00Cf8vwElL6FOPjJ/view?usp=sharing) for amazing art, great games, and fabulous filk. Join the _Gauda Prime Social Club_ Discord server [**here**](https://discord.gg/nvcHh8xTPe)!

The scone was fluffy and light as air, contrasting with the indecently decadent cream on top. Blake plunged himself into the sweet, sugary strawberry jam nestled between the two, tonguing at the delicious combination and pulling it back in between his sticky lips. Oh, that was _good_. The cream above smeared against his nose, melting on the soft hot scone and dribbling down his fingers, which he took up with a broad swipe of his tongue, nestling in between his digits to clean the evidence away. 

Blake swallowed, the mouthful of jam and cream hardly solid enough, and in a fit of passion he crammed the scone into his mouth and chewed, moaning around the buttery decadence filling him. 

It was just as good as he’d imagined, and hell, they were all his. 

Blake swallowed again, eyes drooping closed, feeling the scone slide down his throat with a coarse shiver while his hand blindly took up the next one and bit into it, demolishing the thing in two ravenous bites. He swallowed again, groaned, and pressed a hand to his belly.

“I’m sorry, friend,” his eyes fluttered open and he gave himself a consolatory pat. “You’re probably going to have to suffer through another six weeks of Cally’s diet, but tonight—” he looked across at the pile of little scones remaining, stacked, unsuspecting, by the innocent bowls of jam and cream “—tonight will be worth every single calorie.”

Blake’s hands blurred in a frenzy, slicing open steaming scone after steaming scone, slathering its insides with sticky jam and mounding cream upon the morsel as if to drown it. And each little treat 

that passed his lips was lovingly chewed, embraced almost to completion in his mouth, and then allowed to slide down his hungry throat like a gentle caress towards his hollow stomach.

Blake groaned into the sixth scone as he crammed it past his lips and sank his teeth into it, pulling it apart to stare at the bite marks left in the dough, cut out vivid and sharp through the cream and jam above.

“Oh, you are _sinful_ , my little heavenly thing,” he muttered around his half bite, reaching out with his tongue to trace the indents of his teeth through the melting cream. “I want you inside of me, every last one of you,” he swallowed hard and popped the remaining piece into his mouth, followed quickly by two more, packing his mouth to bursting with cream and butter and sugar, barely able to close his lips over the mouthful as he valiantly tried to chew—

“Are you eating or fucking yourself in there?” 

Blake’s eyes went wide as saucers and he clamped his sticky hand over his mouth, chewing as quickly as he could, silently thanking himself for having loaded the last scone with enough cream to ease its sliding down his throat. If his mouth had been any less full, he might have choked at the sound of Avon’s voice coming into the galley. With the lights manually set to low, they didn’t brighten in their usual warning that another was approaching — and what had been Blake’s security, in the dimness of the lights hiding his binge, was now to be his downfall.

“Because if you _are_ touching yourself, I would remind you that there are plenty of perfectly good cabins on board. I don’t like the idea of my eating space sharing the same room that you wank yourself off in, Vila.”

_Vila—!_

Blake swallowed harder, cringing around the lump going down his throat, and bit back the urge to cough. He didn’t have anything to wash the scones down with — he hadn’t stopped long enough to even consider making tea — so he had no choice but to grin and bear the pain as his neck struggled to soothe the scones down. 

Blake dusted himself off, beating crumbs and an errant dollop of jam from his pyjama shirt, and wiped his hands vigorously on his trousers. There wasn’t enough time to hide the treats in front of him though, nor even a chance to disguise the fact that most of the plate had disappeared, and it wouldn’t take a smart man like Avon very long to work out where all the scones had disappeared to.

The galley lights bloomed into brightness just as Blake wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, hastily banishing the remaining evidence from his person. He tried to ignore the burning glow he could feel spreading across his cheeks up to the tips of his ears.

“Hello Avon. Couldn’t sleep?” Blake managed to say in a remarkably steady voice, back ramrod straight, peering over the scones before him as if they weren’t even there. 

Avon, who had been hugging the wall to turn the lights up, stopped with his hand still poised over the control knob. There was a smirk on his face that Blake had never seen before, and once the shock of seeing Blake (and not, apparently, Vila) had passed over Avon, that strange smirk only turned more _foreign_.

“Well now... and I thought I’d caught Vila cheating on his diet, not you. Appreciating my latest work, Blake?”

Blake paled a little but he kept his back straight, watching Avon slide carefully into the bench opposite him.

“Your work?” he prompted, eyes refusing to drop from Avon’s face. He wasn’t going to acknowledge the decimated scone pile unless he had to.

“On the replicator,” Avon explained, a hand snaking forth to capture one of the jammed-up scones and dollop a ludicrous amount of cream on top. Blake fought a sudden and rather vicious urge to slap the man’s hand away from his scones and growl ‘ _mine_ ’.

“Where else would you get freshly-baked scones? Unless, that is, you’ve got some culinary talents you’ve been hiding from us.”

Avon lifted the scone to his face and paused, his hand hovering with the treat only mere inches from his lips.

“What?” Avon grinned wickedly, and when he waved the scone back and forth, Blake was mortified to realise he’d been following the thing like a hawk follows a mouse. Blake shook his head, freeing himself from his trance, and sank back against the wall behind him.

“You improved the replicator?” he forced the subject back, and Avon mercifully allowed the conversation to change.

“Surely someone of your epicurean leanings would know the difference? The replicator can spit out a hot meal, yes, but they’re always a bit... stale, don’t you find?”

Avon took a sudden delicate bite from the scone in his hand and Blake frowned both at his audacity and at the fact that Avon had seen him so distracted by the scone again. _That was mine!_ his stomach growled in untimely protest and Avon laughed in a way that set off alarm bells in Blake’s mind. Avon only ever laughed like that when he was up to something.

“And you made it so the replicator gives us fresh meals instead?” Blake asked thickly, determined not to look at the scone while his eyes followed it closely.

“Rather I set it so the meals that come out are less... mature. It seems the Altas liked their food more well done than us. You should try a proper Tarnissiean steak — it comes out perfectly now. Shall I get you one?” Avon shifted back, pushing himself up by the elbows without relinquishing his scone.

Blake surged forward, playing Avon’s little game perfectly.

“No, thank you; I’m not hungry,” he touched the inside of Avon’s elbow almost unconsciously, like a cat pawing for the treat held tight in its master’s hand. 

Avon cocked his eyebrow and glared as he sat back down.

“Not hungry?” he asked in an accusatory falsetto, eyes drifting across the expanse of crumbs Blake had neglected to brush from the table before him. 

Blake’s stomach gurgled again, louder in the awkward silence of the galley. 

“Not even after all this time on Cally’s diet?” he prodded, letting his hand with the scone drop to the table. “I’m surprised Blake. I mean, you’ve lost — what did I hear Cally say — ten pounds or so? Your dedication to this, like all your causes, is _admirable_ ,” Avon punctuated his sentence with another nibble at the scone in his hand and Blake’s resulting scowl could have scorched him.

“What do you want, Avon?” Blake’s voice was like sandpaper, trying to wipe away the irritating smile on Avon’s lips.

“I was trying to catch out Vila to turn him in to Cally, actually,” Avon shrugged at the refreshing bout of honesty. “But I stumbled upon a _much_ better quarry. For instance, I wasn’t aware that phase three of the Auron diet allowed for midnight gorging. It’s a very flexible meal plan, I gather, if you can fit in—” Avon turned his hand to count out the remaining treats on the plate, “—nine scones.” Blake blanched.

“You don’t know how many the replicator made,” Blake parried weakly, somehow feeling he wasn’t going to win the argument that way. Avon smiled.

“The replicator always produces a group serving as a dozen.” _Damn_.

“That’s only eight then, anyway,” Blake mumbled and stared at the scone in Avon’s hand. Cream was beginning to run down the back of his wrist, but Avon seemed not to notice. 

Blake’s tongue twitched in his mouth and he felt a sudden, giddy rush at the thought of licking the trail up off Avon’s square, capable fingers.

“Well, Blake?” the question dragged him back to the man in front of him and Blake blushed when he realised he’d completely missed whatever it was Avon had said to him. 

Rather irritatingly, Blake found that the scone in Avon’s hand was hovering ever closer to his side of the table, inviting him; probably a trick.

“What did you say?” he shook his head and made a show of rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm, faking a rather ambitious yawn. “I didn’t hear you; I must be tired.”

Avon sneered.

“With eight scones worth of sugar coursing through your veins? I doubt it,” he waved the scone idly through the air. “I _said_ Cally would be upset to hear about your little transgression.”

So that was his game. Blake’s innocent mask dropped into a scowl and he sat himself more upright still, forcing all the dignity he could into his stature and trying very hard not to let his pleasantly full stomach stick out too much. 

“Are you threatening me, Avon?”

“Merely stating a fact,” he replied with a saccharine smile that soured Blake’s mood again. 

“If you think you can blackmail me, then you’re mistaken,” he brought himself up hastily, trying to cover a stomach rumble with the sound of movement. “Besides, what proof do you have?”

“I shouldn’t think I need to blackmail you; after all, the numbers don’t lie.” Avon’s obvious amusement was beginning to grate.

“I’ll work them off tomorrow.”

“Oh, well then, there’s no trouble, is there?” he smiled brightly and Blake felt a little sick. “It doesn’t matter if the Infallible Roj Blake doesn’t stick to the plan, so long as the results are the same. Cally would have no objection, then, if a backed-up copy of the replicator’s running log for the past month were to appear in her quarters.” 

Suddenly, Avon’s presence felt a lot more deliberate than it had seemed before. Blake couldn’t even wipe the logs or smash the replicator to smithereens — the bastard had thought of everything. 

The starch melted out of Blake’s spine and he slumped, knowing he was cornered. He had been cheating on his diet... every week for the past month. And Avon had probably known for just about as long, biding his time, waiting for just the right moment to strike. 

Blake cast his mind back to the flight deck and his and Avon’s conversations of the past month, trying to recall their usual bickering and all the banter they’d exchanged, but for the life of him, he couldn’t put his finger on it: why was Avon doing this; what did he want?

The cream that had been melting down Avon’s hand dripped onto the table, and Blake watched as Avon caught the runnel of cream with his lips and chased it up the side of his hand with his tongue. Blake stiffened, suppressing a sudden and unexpected shudder — he could hardly even comprehend the rush of blood that surged down to his crotch, swelling the cock pressed between his thighs. 

When Avon licked his lips and looked back up, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of Blake’s burning cheeks. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.

Standing abruptly, Avon crossed to the door, carrying his scone with him and taking a few calculated nibbles as he walked. With his free hand, he fingered the door control. Blake heard the electronic bolt engage. 

Deadlocked from the inside. It might not stop Vila, but the lockpick was most likely sound asleep, as were the rest of the crew bar Gan on watch. He was diligent; he wouldn’t leave his post. 

Blake’s stomach fluttered, realising all too slowly the situation he was now in was carefully engineered; Avon had him exactly where he wanted him. 

Another thrill coursed through him at the thought — that he was at Avon’s mercy, and even if he hated the idea himself, his treacherous cock seemed entirely too interested. Blake squirmed, readjusting himself quickly beneath the table, and cleared his throat, feeling no better for it at all.

When Avon returned, he made a show of licking his lip, tongue gathering up the cream that sat there. He held the half-eaten scone in his hand between them, an obvious challenge. 

“What’s this all about?” Blake asked carefully, feeling entirely lost as Avon leaned across the table, arm outstretched. Avon tilted his head, acknowledging the sacrifice Blake made to his pride simply by asking; hopefully, Avon thought, it would be the first of many.

“You have indulged yourself,” he purred, waving the treat in front of Blake’s face, “now indulge me.” 

But Blake was unmoved, and totally unwilling to take the bait offered to him. That only seemed to amuse Avon, and his piercing gaze dropped down, inch by inch, taking in Blake’s flushed cheeks and quivering stomach muscles, knowing Blake was holding himself in entirely, and being perfectly willing to push him until he broke. It was getting hard to keep composed the longer Avon stared...

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Would I be bothering with you if I weren’t?” Avon sneered and shifted, tugging the plate of scones across to Blake and nudging the jam and cream next to them. “Finish it.”

Blake felt himself go pale. 

“What?”

“You aren’t deaf.” The look in Avon’s steely eyes showed he wasn’t making some twisted joke, and Blake laughed incredulously. 

“You can’t be serious!”

“It’s either this or back to the beginning of Cally’s diet, starting, I believe, with the juice cleanse.” 

Avon saw Blake repress his shudder at the mere thought of the bitter, green concoction that had run through him like— well. No sane man would want to go through that again. 

Now the terms had been set, and Blake seethed with the knowledge that Avon had cornered him so neatly. That Avon would stoop to blackmail wasn’t surprising — and wasn’t worth the risk that he’d go ahead with his threat. He had nothing to lose; _Blake had another five pounds, at least_. 

Blake squared his shoulders and sat up a little straighter, and when he did, his stomach pressed against his pyjama bottoms and he resisted the urge to relax again and give his poor belly a break. 

Above him, Avon smirked triumphantly.

“I think you’ve made your choice.”

“What do you gain from this?” Blake asked, stalling, though he knew it wouldn’t be for long. 

“For once, you should see something through,” Avon stated simply, and the conviction in his voice was as casual as it would have been had they been lightly bickering on the flight deck, “and that your actions do in fact have consequences. It will be refreshing to see those consequences fall on you for a change.”

“This is rid-”

“-a taste of your own medicine, yes,” Avon interrupted, brooking no argument. 

Blake’s eyes dropped and he looked to the plate of scones before him for the first time since Avon had entered, giving the things more attention than he had even when he’d summoned them from the replicator. There were only three left now — soft, fluffy, buttery little things. Blake’s neck and cheeks flushed hot with the guilty — and quite belated — realisation that he had overdone it already. 

“I can’t eat all these. I was almost done when you arrived,” he lied plaintively and hoped it was believable, but Avon smiled and he knew it hadn’t fooled him for a minute. 

“I’ve seen you eat more at dinner.”

“That’s a _lie_.”

“Would you be in this situation if it were?”

Blake face darkened as he cast his mind back to the past year. It wasn’t his fault. Maybe he had been overdoing it a little, but it was difficult to maintain a steady diet on the _Liberator_. Irregular watches, planet-side visits, raids, late-night planning... sometimes you went down to a planet after breakfast and it was their tea time; how were you supposed to barter for supplies with the Blainoans without having dinner with them first? 

And then there were times they’d get stuck on a planet and there would be hours between meals. What if he’d eaten a little more than was strictly necessary on his return? He’d been _starving_. And the snacking—

Well, the snacking could be helped. But when you had a replicator and Vila had a tendency to summon up bowls of chips and then leave them scattered about, could you really shoulder all the blame? It wasn’t _entirely_ his fault. 

Avon was still holding the scone out patiently while he watched Blake make up his mind, and he suppressed a sinister grin when he saw Blake give in. 

It was a pretty sight, he thought, watching the defeat cloud over Blake’s face combined, he knew, with the first twinges of an unpleasantly overfilled stomach. 

Eventually Blake looked up from the plate, steadfastly ignoring Avon, and he grasped for the scone clutched in his fingers, but Avon pulled away before Blake could take it. 

“Oh no,” he said firmly, shaking his head, “no, I don’t think it should be that easy for you, Blake. Not when it has been so difficult for your crew.” 

Blake frowned, confused. Like it wasn’t hard enough already swallowing his pride; Avon didn’t have to make the scones a trial too.

“I’m doing what you asked,” he said, eyeing Avon’s hand. And then he blanched with the realisation of what Avon wanted. “ _Piss off_.”

He wouldn’t do it. He _couldn’t_ , not like that, not with Avon. 

He wasn’t going to let himself be _hand-fed_.

His little binge was catching up on him now, and the short bark of laughter Avon allowed himself was cut off by Blake’s pained huff. He hadn’t meant to make a sound, but sitting upright and sucking his full belly in for so long was starting to hurt, and he cringed when a cramp shot through his middle.

Avon’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. 

Suddenly, the idea of Blake literally squirming with discomfort became vastly more appealing than he had first given thought. 

His plan — catching Blake in the galley and engaging in a little bit of aversion therapy — had seemed like an amusing enough plan at the time. Now, his cock told him rather decisively, it was becoming something else — something more _complex_. 

Avon resolutely ignored this newfound interest and turned his attention back to Blake, determined to not to let purely physical reactions control him. It worked briefly until Blake breathed out a sigh that heaved his soft chest outward against his shirt, and Avon’s cock eagerly reminded him of his growing interest with another distracting twitch. 

“Well Blake?” he said, pushing through with a voice schooled into a confident purr.

Blake’s stomach flipped and he scooted forwards slowly, leaning over the table. When he was sure the table would hide it, he let himself out, feeling his poor aching belly push against his waistband. He tried not to look relieved, but it felt incredible, and he shifted a little on the bench as his cock stirred, adding to the sensations he was trying not to feel. 

Avon held the scone up higher, floating only inches from his lips. Blake stared it down defiantly, pointlessly. He’d already lost. Avon knew this, and he held it still until Blake finally conceded and leaned in, taking Avon’s half-eaten scone in one whole bite. His lips brushed against Avon’s fingers as he took it, and the tech’s mouth went suddenly dry. 

Avon suppressed a shiver at the touch, unwillingly committing to memory the heat of Blake’s warm, soft lips smearing cream over his fingers. When he looked at his hand, his fingertips were a mess. He did nothing, and when Blake moaned around his mouthful, Avon’s knees went weak and he sat down, trying not to make his haste obvious. His cock throbbed in his tight black trousers, beginning to stiffen, and Avon barely bit back the urge to roll his hips and encourage it. He crossed his legs instead, trapping himself between his lean thighs. He wasn’t quite sure whether that was better or worse. 

Blake’s heart sank when Avon sat down, realising this was just the beginning, and it made the sweetness of the scone in his mouth taste like ash as it went down. 

He watched Avon split open the next one, scowling heavily as his own shame clawed its way up his throat. He’d hoped Avon’s resolve would waver after the abject humiliation he’d let himself endure. Obviously not.

Blake’s stomach rumbled, and even though he was sure Avon had heard it, the man said nothing, focussing on splitting apart the next scone. When he looked up, Blake was staring at him. And then, rather embarrassingly, he felt a hiccough in his chest that he didn’t have a chance to stifle. Avon laughed. 

“You broke the diet, Blake; now the diet is going to break you.”

“You’re a cruel man.”

“I thought you were enjoying yourself?” he shrugged, wiping the cream from his fingers into the clean middle of the scone.

“You weren’t invited.”

“You certainly sounded like it when I found you,” Avon continued as he loaded up the scone. He took his time, carefully spreading jam across its fluffy centre, followed by yet more mounds of melting cream, sandwiching the two halves together. The insides oozed out and over Avon’s fingers again, but he ignored it, holding the scone out for Blake. 

This time, he was leaning back, and when Avon looked to Blake, his eyes couldn’t help but drift downward past his rounded stomach to the impressive bulge swelling against the front of Blake’s trousers. Blake followed his gaze, knowing what Avon would find. There was little point hiding it. 

“Enjoying the view?” Blake asked derisively, but Avon didn’t seem to be swayed at all. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow and shifted a little on the bench; subtle, but Blake noticed. Avon was uncomfortable. _He was aroused_. 

That made a difference, Blake realised. That suddenly shifted the power here. He suppressed a satisfied grin.

“I knew you liked bossing others around,” Avon drawled on, trying to disguise the fact that it was affecting him, and he rendered a carefully constructed façade when he looked back into Blake’s eyes. “But I didn’t realise it went both ways...”

His tone took on a new edge that sent a shiver racing down Blake’s spine.

“You know what you’re doing,” Blake bit back immediately, and he made to snatch for the scone in Avon’s hand but the other man was too fast — like he’d expected it. Blake nearly growled, and if this had been another inane argument on the flight deck, he would have. 

“It didn’t work on Vila,” the tech smiled then, and the sight of his white teeth peeking out in a disarming smile made Blake’s full stomach turn. 

“Is that why you were trying to turn him over to Cally?” he asked and tilted his head for the coup de grâce. “Because you couldn’t best him?”

That rattled Avon, and he dropped his hand to the table, picking at the edges of the scone cradled in his fingers.

“While turning him in to Cally would be amusing, the satisfaction would only be short-lived. Unlike you, Vila does not have scruples; even if Cally confiscated his contraband, he would have a new supply within the week.”

“Has Vila been cheating?” Blake raised an eyebrow and then back-pedalled at Avon’s incredulous look. “What am I saying — of course he’s been cheating.”

“Vila has had a stash of genuine Earth chocolates in his room since we made that supply stop at Teira-12. He hasn’t been in want of a treat since your _regime_ started.”

“That explains why he’s still on Cally’s phase one rations,” Blake shuddered. 

He didn’t know how Vila could still stand the green juice; the thick, lumpy concoction made from ingredients Cally refused to reveal. Three times a day: breakfast, lunch and dinner. It had smelled bad and tasted infinitely worse, and Blake had initially hated how the stuff had made him feel so sickly and full... although that was probably the point of it. He didn’t know how Vila could still stomach the stuff after so long, but having something solid to eat was probably helping him deal with it on the other end. Blake cast the ugly thought from his mind as the next scone was held up for him, and he pushed back the rising bile in his throat that told him he was overdoing it. 

Only three more to go.

Blake took the next scone from Avon’s fingers and chewed rapidly, swallowing it in a rush, hoping that the faster he went, the quicker this would all be over. He felt the scone slide down his throat and come to rest in his full belly, another mouthful to the meal he’d already consumed. 

He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, one hand rubbing discreetly across his bulging lower stomach, and he rolled his hips against the ache spreading from his gut and out to his stiffening cock. 

Avon held up the next scone readily, and Blake couldn’t help but groan.

“Getting full?” Avon asked, breathless when Blake leaned forwards and took the next bite delicately between his sticky lips. He tried to ignore the look Blake gave him, but as their eyes locked, Avon felt himself throb, and he broke eye contact abruptly. 

He wanted to curse himself, giving in so easily, but was distracted by the sight before him. 

While Blake was occupied, Avon discreetly touched himself below the table, digging the heel of his palm into his trousers and massaging his growing arousal from tip to base in firm strokes. He bit back the urge to thrust up, instead reaching for the next scone, forcing it on Blake before he’d even finished the last mouthful. 

He watched closely as Blake’s neck strained when he swallowed.

“Come on Blake,” he said quietly. “Only two more.”

But Blake cried off, shaking his head as he stifled a hiccough behind his clenched fist. He tried and failed to stay sitting upright, but the ache within him was too much to bear and he felt himself wilt against the wall behind him and hiccough again. The motion made him jiggle and drew attention to the firmness pressing out insistently between his thighs, even harder than before. 

When Avon caught sight of Blake’s cock, he fumbled and dropped the scone. Jam and cream splattered across the plate.

“You _are_ enjoying this,” he said when he’d composed himself, carefully wiping the smeared cream from his fingers. 

His eyes drifted down over Blake’s rounded stomach and the turgid bulge in his trousers, impressed with both. He hardly noticed the way Blake was scowling at him, trying very hard to burn a hole through his head with looks alone. When Avon looked up at him, Blake’s stomach twinged and his scowl turned to a grimace. 

“Yes Avon,” he ground out through clenched teeth and shifted, spreading his thighs, and it made his cock all the more obvious when the trouser material stretched tight. All dignity was long since gone, Blake realised, and he felt little more embarrassed knowing Avon was watching him keenly when he pressed a hand to his side and tried to rub away the aching pressure in his poor middle. 

His eyes fluttered closed briefly with relief and he moaned, a little rumble from somewhere deep in his chest, rich and heavy. When he opened his eyes, Avon was still staring at him, face impassive, unreadable. 

“Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” Blake spat and roused himself, straightening up and stalwartly ignoring the protest his belly made. He looked expectantly at Avon, waiting, and watched the man’s lips part and then close. 

But Avon’s eyes were drawn, fixed on Blake’s mouth and the little spot of white cream in the corner of his lips, looking so conspicuously like a spot of something else, _wishing_ it were a spot of something else. And then Blake noticed Avon staring and his tongue darted out to lick the cream up.

When Avon spoke, his voice was noticeably lower than it had been before, and there was a definite flush to his cheeks. 

“A new deal.”

Blake scoffed.

“I thought we already had a deal.” 

“A _better_ deal. Suck me.”

This time, Blake laughed, and it echoed through the empty galley.

“That’s a better deal, is it?”

“I think you’ll find so—”

“You’ve just changed the terms—”

“—and then fuck me afterwards.”

Both men went silent, eyes locked, sizing each other up. 

Blake was the first to speak, softly now, and cautious, infinitely grateful that it gave away so little when his heart was nearly pounding out of his chest and his hands itched to relieve the twin aches coiling inside him. He felt like he might explode from either one. 

“If that’s the way you want it.”

“I would not have suggested it if I didn’t,” Avon said quietly, and there was a certain lilt to his voice, like he were even amused. But his face didn’t show it and he didn’t smile; just turned his attention to the nearly empty plate between them. 

“You’ll have to work them off, of course,” he explained as casually as if he’d been cataloging his watch log on the flight deck. He gathered up the remnants of the dropped scone, and when he looked up, he met Blake’s eyes with a dangerous gleam. “I can’t, in good conscience, sit here and watch you ruin your diet and then just let you walk away like it never happened.”

“You’re _feeding_ them to me!” Blake barked and sucked at his lower lip, teeth biting gently into his flesh. “You’re complicit in this.” He ran a finger across his mouth almost unconsciously. “I’d have stopped by now—”

“Would you?”

In answer, Blake shifted back on the bench and rested his shoulders to the wall behind him, exposing his inflated middle on purpose now. Running his fingers under the elastic waistband of his pyjamas, Blake tugged at his trousers until the material slipped over the apex of his stomach and down his swollen underbelly to where the merest trace of hair began. His other hand pulled up his increasingly-snug shirt and, looking down at himself, Blake couldn’t help cocking an eyebrow at the sight of his stuffed, aching gut. He could feel it swelling as he ate, certainly, but seeing the damage done was an entirely different experience.

“Cally is going to murder you,” Blake said softly, looking up at Avon. He sneered.

“Do you really think she is going to believe you when you say you were forced to eat a dozen scones?”

“I won’t have to tell her,” he replied, but despite his protesting, when Avon held out the next scone, he eased himself forward and took a bite, smaller than last time, stifling a groan that heralded the ache within him. 

_This was a mistake_ , Blake’s mind unhelpfully supplied, but he swallowed that thought down with the second half of the scone in Avon’s fingers. He would not be beaten, not when he’d already come this far. 

He didn’t even notice the way Avon’s hand shook now, and as he leaned back to rest, he closed his eyes. He was only dimly aware that Avon hadn’t moved.

When he opened his eyes, Avon’s hand was still out, fingers laden with cream and jam and palm turned upwards. Blake licked his lips. 

“What?” he said, pushing, _daring_ Avon to ask him to do what he thought the man wanted, but all he got was a derisive snort. 

“We had a deal,” he said simply, ignoring the tightness of his own voice.

_There it was — eating out of the palm of his hand._

The softness of Blake’s hot mouth startled Avon, and he lost control of his breathing as lips wrapped around his finger, taking his digit in to the last knuckle. Blake swirled his tongue across Avon’s skin, sucking him clean as he tongued from knuckle to fingertip. 

When Avon’s finger slipped free, Blake let the wet finger rest against his lips, and Avon turned the pad of his thumb over Blake’s lower lip, rubbing over soft skin, moist and warm and flushed bright red. He battled with a sudden desire to kiss those lips, imagining how they would taste; of Blake and of sweetness and cream, sticky and unpleasant until he used his tongue to clean Blake up. 

Avon pulled his wet fingers back and shook himself. Not yet. He was in control still, and Blake needed to be fed. He couldn’t give in now.

He split the last scone on the plate and began to overload the treat with the last of the jam and cream, clearly too much for the tiny scone. The little mountain of melting cream slid over the jam, and Avon paid special attention as he pushed it back on with his sticky, blunt fingers. He passed his tongue over his own lips, finding his mouth had gone dry.

“Why do you like this?” Blake asked, breathing hard and buying himself time to recover. 

Avon shrugged.

“A little harmless sadism perhaps,” he said, timed perfectly with a gurgle from Blake’s belly that made him bite back another groan. “Or perhaps I like seeing you lose control.”

“Apparently I was managing that well enough before you got here,” he replied, rubbing at his tight skin. 

“Ah, but you never finished your other meals,” Avon explained, following Blake’s hand as it dipped closer towards his straining cock. 

He seemed not to show any bashfulness in the admission that he had watched Blake for the past month through Zen’s scanners, and Blake didn’t question it; of course Avon would have watched — from the moment he’d discovered the midnight servings listed in the replicator’s logs. 

“And what? You touched yourself while I was in here making a pig of myself, or did you prefer to let me keep going and see how long before Cally caught me?”

“No, actually,” Avon said truthfully, another stroke of honesty disconcerting him just a little as he confessed to the man before him. “Watching you through the scanners and... being here in person, in control and having a direct effect on you... is much more stimulating.” 

His eyes flickered across to Blake’s body, past his heaving chest and straight down to the cock pressed excruciatingly tight in his trousers. It had to be hurting Blake, Avon realised with a surge of longing, and he kept his eyes down as he spoke. 

“I didn’t realise how so.”

His heart was racing now, anticipation making his voice tight and body burn, and when Blake reached down to tug his waistband out, he felt a bead of sweat roll down the inside of his hip within his loose, black trousers. 

That was the last straw.

Avon stood abruptly and the bench squeaked behind him. He undid his trousers, pushing them down to the tops of his thighs and manoeuvring himself out gently, hissing at the wash of cool air over his hot skin. 

Blake nearly choked at the sight of the hefty balls and cock jutting from Avon’s pale abdomen. 

“Come on, Blake; you can’t expect me to let you have any dessert until you’re finished, now can you?” Avon’s eyebrow rose in challenge, and Blake looked away sheepishly, turning his attention to the last innocent scone sitting lonely on its plate — the plate Blake had decimated, not entirely of his own free will. 

“You won’t tell Cally?” he couldn’t help but ask, once more, maybe in some way seeking to justify what he’d done, or to reconcile the illicit pleasure dragging itself through his bursting stomach straight down to his cock. He felt himself beginning to leak, a dribble of precum beading at his tip. For the first time since Avon had come in, he found himself _wanting_ to eat.

Avon saw his breath hitch. 

“No, I won’t tell Cally,” Avon replied, voice tight and high. He stroked himself twice slowly, heart hammering like mad at the look Blake fixed him with. He reached forward with his free hand and took up the final scone. 

“One more to go.”

Avon lifted the melting mess of jam and cream aloft, hovering just beyond Blake’s lips and watched with bated breath as Blake stared at it, licked his lips and opened his mouth wide to take the thing from Avon’s fingers whole. 

Avon squeezed himself and accidentally squeezed the scone too, and jam and cream oozed over his hand, smearing sweetness across Blake’s lips as they brushed his trembling fingers. Blake hummed around his full mouth as he chewed, eyes locked with Avon’s. His breath caught with a little gasp and he tried not to whine.

“Well done,” Avon whispered, gulping and trying valiantly to compose himself as he watched Blake swallow and reach up to wipe the cream from his lips, sucking it off his fingertip slowly and deliberately.

“I believe there was mention of dessert?” Blake’s eyes dropped to the final treat concealed in Avon’s fist. He needed something to drink after all that. 

He was trying very hard not to gasp and let Avon know just how stuffed he really was, and it seemed to be working. 

Avon turned to the table and brushed sharply at the crumbs over the surface, shoving the empty crockery aside, and when it was clear he slid onto the tabletop, planting one leg on either side of Blake. 

He spread his legs, stretching the soft material of his trousers tight across his thighs and held his cock firmly, giving himself a few short, slow strokes until he was rigid in his palm.

When he looked up, he found Blake leaning forwards, hands hesitating at his knees and eyes fixed on the length of cock no longer hidden by his hand. Blake was panting softly, gulping with shallow, pained breaths. He really had overdone it, and the thought that one more mouthful of _cream_ might be too much for him nearly sent Avon over the edge. His cock pulsed in his palm and he growled. 

“Can you manage?” he teased, stroking himself with the tips of his fingers, spreading the first drops off precum up and down his slit. Blake licked his lips and nodded silently, not trusting his voice.

Avon reached out and ran his fingers through Blake’s curls, tangling in the soft brown hair and pulling him down. He guided Blake’s head to his crotch and felt the man come willingly, tongue darting out to lick down the side of Avon’s straining shaft, and he shivered against the soft, wet, eager tongue. 

He closed his eyes minutely, drawn away by Blake’s enthusiastic work, giving himself in too readily to the mouth that consumed him, feeding his cock inch by inch in Blake’s hot, welcoming mouth. 

As he buried his face in Avon’s crotch, Blake palmed himself, switching between feather-light scratches and hard rubs against his length, feeling more precum beading at his tip and blossoming a wet stain on his soft trousers. His balls drew up tight against his body, squeezed between his thighs and the bench, and he shuddered with pleasure. He relaxed his throat, and just when he’d swallowed Avon to the point of gagging, he stopped, lips stretched into a mischievous grin around firm cock.

Blake’s lips dragged back up Avon’s shaft, making the man in his mouth tremble, and he could tell Avon was holding himself back. Feeling suddenly aggressive, Blake wrapped his lips around Avon’s tip and he sucked hard, catching under the base of Avon’s cockhead, creating an instant, electric jolt that went straight to his balls.

“ _BLAKE!_ ” Avon shot over double, crying out at the intensity. Trust Blake to immediately take things too far.

Blake pulled off reluctantly, tongue swiping up the underside of Avon’s cock as he went, and he leaned back with an innocent grin on his face.

“Too much?”

Avon was still reeling, fist squeezed tight and nails biting into his palm in an effort to bring himself under control. 

“Something about sucking the Herculaneum off a space shuttle comes to mind,” he huffed and gave a few wide-eyed blinks at the wall before composing himself. “Why don’t we try that again? Perhaps with a little less—”

“—hunger?” Blake suggested with a raised eyebrow and a smirk that made Avon want to stuff his cock back into Blake’s mouth until he couldn’t breathe. 

His hand shook as he sunk his fingers into Blake’s curls again, nails scratching against his scalp, trying valiantly to control his urges. His hand tightened in Blake’s hair, ready to pull his head back at the first sign of misbehaviour, but Blake’s soft lips wrapped around his cock and only suckled gently this time, tongue lovingly cradling the underside of his cock, tracing the thick vein underneath. His teeth, scraping only the smallest bit against rigid flesh, drove Avon to distraction. 

Blake hollowed his cheeks, dragging the cum from Avon’s balls one tender, hungry suck at a time, tonguing Avon’s slit with dedication and lapping up the salty drops as they beaded. Blake’s neck bulged, a glistening sheen of sweat trailing down to his exposed collarbone and pooling in the soft hollow of his throat. 

His broad hands slid up Avon’s thighs, kneading at the lean muscle beneath his skin, scratching gently through the coarse hair up to Avon’s hips. While one thumb pressed into the curve of Avon’s hipbone, the other hand dipped below Avon’s cock, fingers gathering the soft silk flesh of his balls and rolling them gently in his palm, cupping the weight and feeling Avon tense within his mouth. Blake sucked harder, slipping the rigid cock just a little deeper into his throat, and he felt Avon’s thighs tremble, dragging closer and closer to the edge — until the pressure was too much and he burst. Avon threw his head back, biting off a cry and flowing into Blake’s mouth, feeling the mouth around him swallow greedily and suck again, coaxing every last drop from his throbbing cock.

Avon was still gasping when Blake straightened up, and he tugged his shirt back down, adjusting his clothes and carefully brushing stray crumbs from his lap. He swallowed and swallowed again, throat bobbing as he swallowed Avon’s seed down, bitter after the jam but just as thick as the cream...

Blake spread his thighs, giving himself more room, and huffed with relief as he shoved his hand within his trousers and pulled himself out.

Avon’s eyes widened at the sight of the monstrous cock cradled in Blake’s hand. 

“My turn,” Blake said, pleased by the look of wide-eyed shock in Avon’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind?” 

He smirked and gave himself a few slow, firm strokes, sliding his fingers through the slickness on his tip.

Avon took a minute to reply, tongue tied and mouth open, still gasping from his own orgasm. He shook himself, blinked a few times, and garbled out something that sounded like a ‘gods yes‘. 

Avon let himself be manipulated, shuddering, bonelessly eager, ready for Blake even while his mind screamed at him that it was entirely too much cock — and perversely, he shuddered at the thought that _too much_ was exactly what he wanted. 

Blake tucked his waistband beneath his balls, exposing himself fully, and Avon knew he was doomed.

Hands grabbed hold of Avon’s hips and helped him turn over, laying against the tabletop, and Blake settled between his legs, soft, wide thighs pushing his lean ones apart.

“I thought you didn’t like fucking and eating in the same space?” Blake asked, grinning at the scowl Avon threw over his shoulder and he chuckling when Avon told him to shut up. 

With a few tugs and a bit of uncoordinated fumbling, Blake had Avon’s trousers off, and when he gripped Avon’s skinny thighs, Avon parted them willingly, exposing himself for Blake. 

The vulnerability alone thrilled him, and if he weren’t spent he knew he would have been aching at the mere thought. When Blake’s large hands slipped over his cheeks, Avon sighed into the crook of his elbow, pushing himself up against the hard table and encouraging Blake to knead at his flesh.

Thick fingers dug into his arse, inviting themselves into the cleft, and Avon swallowed a moan.

“How can you sit on this?”

“What?” he gulped out.

“This,” Blake punctuated his words with a squeeze, fingers digging deeper between the cheeks. “You’re skin and bone. No wonder you have a bad back; you have no cushioning.” 

Dry fingers trailed over his hole and Avon bucked.

“Maybe next time I should feed you a dozen scones; do you some good,” Blake purred, leaning down over Avon’s back, and both men felt the sound round swell of Blake’s belly brushing between them, full and warm, stuffed to the brim with sweets. 

Avon squirmed, a slither of arousal making his spent cock twitch, crammed between bony hips and the hard table. He still maintained it was Blake’s doing, but when Avon felt Blake’s stomach press harder into him, he couldn’t help but feel lost — overwhelmed by the idea of Blake losing control like that, giving in and letting himself be lead past the point of comfort, surrendering to Avon’s whims and obeying with soft little grunts and needy 

gasps—

“Relax, Avon,” he heard Blake saying, and he hadn’t noticed the man behind him had moved until hot breath whispered between his spread arse cheeks and he felt the softest tongue lap over his hole. 

Avon bucked, but broad hands pinned him down like they’d expected it. 

Blake chuckled at that reaction, expecting to shock but not shatter him. The voiceless gasp that Avon took was enough to tell Blake that he was on the right track, so he leaned back in and did it again. 

Wet tongue glided between Avon’s parted cheeks, probing his hole and lapping at the puckered flesh, feeling Avon’s muscles flutter and relax as he worked. Avon shuddered, and Blake felt himself swelling to full hardness, enthralled by the way Avon came apart so readily on his tongue, sending a surge of lust through his body and making his heavy stomach tingle with anticipation. He wanted to feel Avon fall apart beneath him. He needed it. 

Blake pulled back when he felt Avon ready and he sucked two fingers, swirling his tongue around them and tasting the barest remnants of stickiness on his skin. Once they were wet, he slid his fingertip between Avon’s cheeks, teasing at his hole for a moment before pushing in one thick finger after another. 

Avon shuddered at the first, groaned at the second, and when Blake started scissoring and curling his fingers, he went silent, trembling. Beneath him, his spent cock twitched, still half hard and wanting to fill, but Avon knew it was beyond him. He was thoroughly drained. 

Blake leaned down over Avon, working his hand deeper into him, and he pressed his soft belly against Avon’s back, cock crushed against his firm arse as Blake reached over to whisper in his ear.

“Ready?” he asked, punctuating his words with a deliberate thrust of his fingers. Avon growled impatiently, and when he felt Blake’s cockhead at his entrance, he pushed up. 

Meeting Blake’s downward thrust unexpectedly, Avon’s arms gave out underneath him and he collapsed to the hard table, speared on cock and crushed when Blake stumbled forward. 

Avon cried out — the sensation of being suddenly and instantly filled to bursting with thick cock too much at once — but the air was squeezed from his lungs before he could make a sound. 

Blake groaned, half in pleasure and half in pain, scrabbling to lift himself back up on weak legs. 

“It was your own fault,” he chuckled when he heard Avon gasping for breath, and it turned into a deep rumble when he felt Avon’s tight ring squeezing him, fighting against the girth splitting him open. 

He was impaled, nearly painfully so, and utterly at Blake’s mercy. When Blake realised that, he felt his thick cock twitch unexpectedly, constricted inside Avon’s devastatingly tight hole. That twitch made Avon tense, and Blake rumbled with pleasure again at the feeling. 

Combined with the overfed glow of his aching belly, it was nearly all too much, and for a while Blake just stood there, one hand caressing Avon’s hip and the other rubbing into the underside of his stomach, trying to soothe both of them at the same time. 

But aching stomachs are more patient than aching arseholes, and Avon made his displeasure known with a few strong squeezes that knocked the breath from Blake’s lungs. It was a close to a wanton please as he expected to get out of Avon. 

Blake started to move, the slow drag of his cock in and out of Avon’s tight arse close to torture, and he longed to speed up and cram himself into Avon until he exploded but his full stomach gurgled a warning and he slowed down, clutching at his aching sides. Avon didn’t fail to notice. 

“You said you’d work them off.”

“Tomorrow,” Blake choked out as he thrust, sliding himself back into Avon painfully slowly, “not tonight.”

“You didn’t work off those pastries last week.”

Blake stilled, buried completely. He shivered, his knees weakening at the feeling of Avon’s grasping, tight passage clinging to him. He still bristled at the thought that Avon had catalogued his sins. 

“I met Cally’s benchmarks,” he defended himself, voice managing to sound just indignant enough to make Avon laugh, and that made Blake’s blood boil. 

He pulled out entirely and nestled his slick cock between Avon’s cheeks and watched precum dribble obscenely from his slit. He closed his eyes and passed his tongue over his lips, waiting until a wave of sickening arousal passed. 

“Go if you want, Blake. I got mine.”

Avon’s hard voice cut through Blake’s meditation and he opened his eyes, feeling his cheeks flush at the sight of the man beneath him. 

Avon sounded like he was cranky as always, but his body said otherwise. Tensed muscles quivered under Avon’s black shirt, sticking to his back with the finest sheen of sweat, drawn into a tiny rivulet at the exposed base of his back. Blake could see Avon’s arms braced against the table like they were halfway between pushing up and giving up, and when he didn’t reply immediately, Avon turned his head just a little and Blake could see just how affected Avon really was with his bottom lip bitten until it was scarlet and puffy, and his cheeks glowing with a smattered blush that looked entirely too provocative for someone like Avon. 

Blake’s cock jerked firmly, the excessive inches slapping against Avon’s arse, smearing precum between his cheeks. 

“Well?”

Avon choked on his words, made speechless as Blake drove himself into his arse, pushing himself until his full stomach protested and he stilled abruptly, groaning and regretting the rapid movement. 

It was heaven; tight, needy arse squeezing every inch of his length, damned near milking him and making his tight balls tense in anticipation. But thrusting was torture; the jostling of his stuffed belly too much for Blake, and he disguised a rather indelicate hiccough by sinking himself deeper into Avon and _finally_ getting a proper moan. 

“ _Blaaake..._ ”

“ _Enjoying yourself?_ ” he laughed breathlessly, pinning Avon down across his lower back, and Blake pulled himself out until his cockhead was nestled just inside Avon’s ring. 

He felt Avon tense, his tip milked by the tight muscles. He shuddered. 

“Get on with it,” Avon hissed into the tabletop, tensing his muscles and squirming, trying to impale himself on the thick cock that merely teased him. 

“Funny, I recall saying that myself not long ago,” Blake bent forwards and pushed, sinking himself into Avon, feeling his cock slide deeper and deeper into Avon’s hole until he was nearly down to the root. “And you still took your sweet time.”

Blake ground his hips into Avon’s bony arse, shoving himself as deep as he could, slow, powerful strokes. His belly squished against Avon’s back, and when Avon bucked back up into him, Blake groaned. 

“Hold still—” he growled and pushed Avon down, pinning him with his cock and pressing his weight into Avon’s arse. “ _Greedy_.”

Blake pushed a knee between his thighs, and just like that Avon was immobilised, trapped against the tabletop with nowhere to move. He twisted, trying to force himself up and buck Blake off, feeling himself breathless with the pressure, but the angle was wrong and Blake was holding him down and filling him up. The pounding into his body only sped up and he relaxed as Blake’s cock fit just that little bit deeper into him, so thick it pressed against his prostate, teasing, not enough, and yet far far too much—

Blake’s thrusts got faster and slicker, and they both felt the first spurts of precum slicking Avon’s hole moments before Blake turned vicious and he slammed his weight into Avon, coming hard into the tight arse quivering around his cock. 

Avon moaned too, the sense of exhausted satisfaction rolling over him in waves, and he clutched behind himself, grabbing at Blake’s plush thighs and holding him close, encouraging him when he collapsed on top of Avon, softening cock still deep inside him. 

Blake gulped thickly, catching his breath, unable to move while he throbbed and wound down. The tightness in his stomach had eased, leaving only a blissful fullness, and he lay there sated, knowing he would sleep well through the rest of the night. 

Turning his head up, Blake pressed a kiss to Avon’s sweaty neck and rumbled in his ear.

“Satisfied?”


End file.
